Nothing Sacred
by Bogart and Bacall
Summary: After one drunken night, and one major mistake, Jordan comes to a realization about her life.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

* * *

Jordan woke, her head apparently had a jackhammer working overtime on it, and wondered where the hell she was. She remembered going to the gay bar, it was a Friday night and all her colleagues were busy doing the bunny hop with their significant others, and while Jordan would try most anything, three-ways were not her thing. At least not yet. She remembered downing shots like Prohibition was to be restored at midnight, remembered the fat woman sitting next to her at the bar, vaguely recalled a one-sided conversation about some dead blonde movie star. Jordan opened her eyes and promptly closed them again. There were luminous stars and a full moon on the ceiling. While she knew strange things tended to happen to her, she couldn't recall ever being ejected into space on a lumpy bed with an even larger lump next to her. She eased her eyes open again, hoping the view of the universe was an illusion, but no. The tacky celestial display was still there for her viewing pleasure. She sat up, slowly, unwilling to disturb the blob next to her, and looked around. Streetlight filtering through the sheers over the window provided enough light to see a small, cluttered apartment, with old movie posters taped to the wall. She glanced at the snoring, snorting mass of humanity next to her and nearly vomited. It was the fat woman from the bar.

Self-awareness returned, none too gently. Jordan was naked, as was the imitation pig next to her, and she was horrified. She itched, and she scratched as gently as possible before easing out of bed. She found her clothes in a pile on the floor beside her bed, and dressed as quickly and silently as possible, the jackhammer in her skull upping the pounding. She carried her shoes and purse to the door, took one look back as the woman rolled over and continued to snore, and slipped out into the corridor. Leaning against the wall, she pulled on her shoes, dug her keys out of her purse, and found her way outside.

The eastern sky was glowing. Jordan found her car by following the light, a star rising in the east was always a good sign. She got in, started it, then gripped the steering wheel and sighed. What the hell, she thought, and then she vomited, barely opening the door in time. Empty at last of content, guilt and revulsion rushed to fill the vacuum, and she sped off toward her apartment on Pearl Street.

She let herself in, tossed her keys on the kitchen counter, and made a mad dash for the shower, this itching was driving her nuts. She shampooed her hair twice and scrubbed her body until she felt raw, then dressed in an old pair of scrubs stolen from the morgue. Though her hair was wet, she yanked the covers back and fell onto her bed, pulling the quilt to her shoulders and hoping for sleep. It didn't come.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

She tried to remember the fat woman's name. Pandora, perhaps? Something tied to mythology, something that sounded like a self-creation by a person badly in need of a new identity. Jordan was afraid. Had she given this woman her phone number, any identifying information? She'd claimed to be an archivist or something, Jordan struggled to remember, to identify what demon drove her into that bar and ultimately home with that thing. She scratched her crotch, then her hair, grateful at least that she couldn't remember what happened once they entered that apartment.

Demons. Jordan knew she must do something, find some way of dealing with the urges that drove her ever closer to self-destruction. God help her if Howard the frog ever heard of this latest trip on the wild side. Restless and thirsty, Jordan threw back the covers and stumbled into the kitchen for a bottle of water. She leaned against the counter and drained it before tossing the empty into the trash. This was insane, this random searching for human contact without real intimacy. One of these days she was going to be on a slab in front of her colleagues, who would mumble pious remarks about waste, pretend to be saddened at her loss. She could see Lily ordering a group circle and leading them in a chorus of "Onward Christian Soldier" or some such hymn. Then Bug would gleefully slice her open, while Nigel watched and wrung his hands. Garret would closet himself in his office and have wild sex with his bottle of scotch. Lily would go from room to room, chastising them about proper mourning rituals, and Nigel would eye a scalpel while she droned ever on, the Princess of Politically Correct, She Who Would Be Obeyed by God. Jordan had a feeling that when they opened her corpse, they'd find an empty shell.

She crawled back in bed and curled into a fetal position, hugging her pillow. Her head threatened to crack from the unrelenting pounding, and she rolled over. She reached into her bedside table drawer and her fingers closed around the Vicodin bottle she'd swiped from a friend. She took two, then curled up again, seeking oblivion. Garret had scheduled her for the night shift, punishment for telling him to screw himself one time too many, as if working nights would alter her behavior. She'd have too much fun playing with the computers, that new porn site she discovered last week was addicting. Who knew fat people could contort like that?

Sleep came, and with it dreams. Her demons, personified, chased her even in sleep. Athlete she once was, she easily eluded Lily and her huge book of "Feelings, nothing more than feelings" by leaping a corpse wearing a George Bush mask. She flattened Bug with an overhand whack with a tennis racquet. Nigel was distracted by Bug's unconscious form, but Howard stalked her relentlessly, though she finally managed to shove him in an empty crypt vault. Garret simply nodded as he drank from the bottle. Jordan woke drenched in sweat. She sat up and looked at the clock, it was eleven. She eased back on the mattress and stared at the ceiling, wondering again about the tackiness of the celestial display in fatty's apartment. Maybe she was an astrologer instead of an archivist? Jordon wouldn't care, if she wasn't terrified the woman would come knocking at her door or show up at the morgue. Something has to change, Jordan thought. I can't keep on like this.

It was as if a switch was flipped in her brain. Jordan saw herself as she was, bright, lovely, and tormented, caught in the games people played even as she denied playing them. No more. She would fight her demons by facing them, confront them truthfully, even if that meant cutting her colleagues off at the knees. Truth be told, and she was telling the truth now, she didn't care all that much about most of them. She dozed off, thinking about the shock it would engender in her colleagues, they'd really say she'd gone off the deep end.

When she woke again at four, her headache was gone but she was thirsty. She drank another bottle of water and then took another shower. She dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, layering an unbuttoned oxford shirt over the tee.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

When she woke again at four, her headache was gone but she was thirsty. She drank another bottle of water and then took another shower. She dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, layering an unbuttoned oxford shirt over the tee. She jammed her feet in her favorite pair of Nikes and then grabbed her purse and keys, slamming the door on her way out. She had to stop for gas, but arrived at work with ten minutes to spare. Her scalp itched, and she scratched it with both hands in the privacy of the elevator, then stepped out to find Garret waiting. His five o'clock shadow appeared to think it was at least eight o'clock, and his eyes were glassy. He glanced at his watch as Jordan stepped out of the elevator.

"Nice to see you without your tits hanging out for once," he said.

Jordan's eyebrows reached for her hairline. "Why thank you, Garret. I don't think anyone's ever called me a whore so politely." She absently stoked the aqua colored tee shirt. With a curt nod, she walked toward her office.

Garret pursued her, grabbing her shoulder. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that," he mumbled, and Jordan stepped away from the fumes emanating from his breath and pores.

"If it's the truth, or at least the truth as you see it, why not say it?" she answered, dismissing him by moving on toward her office. He didn't follow. She hung her purse over the back of her chair, then sat down and regarded her desk. The in basket held a couple of files, and she reached for the top one. Opening it, she saw the intake form for the newest customer, a forty-five year old woman named Pandora Ramos, who'd been stabbed multiple, skillful times. Jordan stared at the name, at the preliminary assessment of cause of death, arguing that it was coincidence, no way could this victim be the same woman she'd met last night. After a few moments of contemplating the theories of synchronicity and the concept of a universal fucking, she picked up the file and its single page and walked to trace.

******

Nigel Townsend stood beside the dead woman, contemplating her from yet another angle. Tall and skinny, he shared the general prejudice of the thin when it came to overweight people - he found them disgusting, and downright nauseating when they were naked. And naked she was, her copious skin stained with dried blood, her eyes open and her once blue eyes faded to a grayish tone. She was a suicide blonde, as evidenced by her dark, graying pubic hair, and her fingernails were painted a ridiculous shade of pink. A ring was embedded in a fleshy finger, to his trained eye it appeared a replica of the jewelry work done in the thirties, with art deco touches. He finished counting the stab wounds and wrote his tally on the chart - forty. Twenty-seven in the back, the remainder in her chest and generous belly. Someone wanted this woman most sincerely dead, he thought. He looked up at the squeak of the door and saw Jordan. She hadn't changed into scrubs, and her expression was more than curiosity, Nigel detected a slight tinge of panic on her finely formed features. "Comrade," he said, taking a light tone.

Jordan ignored his greeting and focused on the corpse. All color drained from her face, and she busied herself looking at the intake form in her hand before looking back at Nigel, composed now. "What do we have?" she asked.

Must be quirky, Nigel thought, and he forced a smile to cover the search for some quirky phrase fitting to his character. "A dead woman," he said, disappointed in his usually fertile brain's one liner.

"I can see that," Jordan snapped.

Oh my, Nigel thought, aren't we PMSing a little early this month? He cleared his throat and looked down at his trace evidence form. "We have a forty-five year old woman, found stabbed to death in her apartment around six this morning. Multiple stab wounds, as you can clearly see. Woody's initial canvas found witnesses who heard two women having raunchy sex, and then a door closing a couple of hours later. CSU is still processing the scene. She's been positively identified as Pandora Ramos, a free lance writer and an archivist for the Boston Film Society. I would hope we'd find she's an active participant in Jenny Craig, too." He sneered. "I can't imagine who'd want to have sex with her, perhaps that's why she chose another woman, the logistics aren't so daunting."

Jordan stared at him, then shook her head and began her own examination of the body. She seemed reluctant to touch it, so, being ever helpful, Nigel walked to the rack of latex gloves attached to the near wall and came back with a pair for her. She put them on without comment, but she still didn't touch the body. "What trace evidence did you find?" she asked, just above a whisper.

"Well." Nigel drew a deep breath, pumping himself for yet another virtuoso performance. "I found a couple of foreign hairs, black, one pubic, the other scalp, and I extracted skin from beneath her fingernails, though it doesn't appear she fought her attacker." He grinned. "I'd say it got there in throes of passion, that our perp will have back scratches. And," he said, his grin broadening, "the woman has lice."

Jordan took two steps back, her eyes opening wider at that tidbit. "Lice?" She scratched her head. "Are you kidding?"

"Not at all, love. I don't think she had a working relationship with showers and shampoos. It must have been one desperate woman to slide between the sheets with her." He pointed at the victim with his pen. "One ugly, desperate, lonely dyke."

Jordan glared at him. "Listen, you British butt pirate, don't make judgments when it comes to human needs. For all you know, this woman," and she gestured at Pandora from her safe distance, "was bright and funny and kind, appealing in her own way."

A technician came in, waving a form. "Tox screen, Nige," he said. "Your vic was loaded."

Nigel took the sheet of paper and dismissed the tech with a wink and a "Thanks, mate." He read the results, his eyebrows arching, and then passed it to Jordan. "Check out that blood alcohol level," he said, "and the oxycodone. I'm surprised she could walk, let alone have sex. I'd guess she never knew what sliced and diced her."

Jordan heard snores and gurgles in her memory, and shook them off, pretending to focus on the tox screen report. "A blessing for her," she said, then attached the form to her intake folder, using an empty examining table as a desk. Her hands shook as she lifted the intake sheet off the prods and slipped the tox form into its place, then covered it with the original page.

"Late night?" Nigel said. "A few too many at Pop's pub?" When Jordan didn't answer, he cleared his throat and said "Let's finish, shall we, before Woodrow bursts in demanding answers. That boy wants to solve all his homicides in fifteen minutes or less. I'm all for ambition, but he's hellbent on making Chief of D's in record time."

"I do get tired of solving his cases for him," Jordan said. "Let me change, and then we'll be ready to light that dim bulb's world." She left her file on the empty steel table and walked out of the trace evidence room, scratching the back of her head. Exceedingly quirky remarks came to mind then, and he slapped his hip in frustration - being quirky, standing out in the crowd, was hard work, and he had a tendency to come up with his best one-liners after his audience left his theatre. He leaned against the empty table and waited for Jordan, practicing his zingers while she dawdled in the locker room.

*******

Jordan changed into pale blue scrubs, then studied her reflection in the mirror over the sink. She inventoried the damages of last night's excesses: dark circles under her eyes, dry skin, bloodshot eyes, and an unquenchable thirst from dehydration. She examined her hands - they were clean and her nails were properly manicured for her occupation, cut short and immaculately clean. She scratched her head again, cursing, wondering how far she'd have to go out of her way to find an all night pharmacy where she wasn't known. Maybe she could wear a bag over her head when she purchased a couple of boxes of Rid. Certain that she looked as well as could be expected given the circumstances, and absolutely certain she didn't do in the vic, she drew a deep, cleansing breath and returned to trace.

Nigel hopped down from the empty table, ready to finish examining the body for whatever traces the killer left. Jordan pulled her long black hair together at the base of her skull and skillfully confined it with a rubber band. Pulling on new gloves, she bent over the body, fighting revulsion at the memories that came unbidden, this woman leading her into a small apartment in a neighborhood known for artists and other unusual people. Pulling the magnifier to the table, she began the ritual of examining every inch of a body she apparently knew intimately, despite Nigel's protest that he'd already done that, how else would he have found the foreign hairs?

"Just shut up, Nigel," Jordan said. "You might have missed something. It happens." She glanced up, noting his wounded expression. "I know you're good at what you do, but even wizards make mistakes. Just ask the man behind the curtain." She returned her attention to the corpse.

Pandora's face was heavily caked with makeup. Without muscle tension, it was now cracking and peeling away like the old paint it was. Jordan carefully lifted some of the flakes with tweezers and dropped them into an evidence bag. She also removed the contact lenses, and then, for dignity's sake as much as anything, pulled the large booger from Pandora's left nostril and discarded it in the trash. She examined the neck, using the long tweezers to move small rolls of fat, seeking whatever might be caught in them. From there she moved to the trunk, counting and measuring stab wounds, feeling pity for this woman. Someone was really angry with her and wanted to make that clear. She examined her hands, still smudged with ink from fingerprinting, one couldn't rely on ID, not in this day of identity theft and shifting personas. When she came to the pubic hair, her revulsion threatened to become full blown nausea, which, when she thought about it for half a second, wouldn't be so bad, if she hurled on the body it would explain the presence of her DNA on the corpse. Woody wouldn't question that - she wouldn't have to fend off his prurient interest in Jordan's traces on this woman's body.

Trace collection and cataloging complete, she allowed Nigel to wheel the woman into autopsy two, flattering him by alluding to his superior strength. Nigel, of course, preened under her flattering manipulation, and she followed him at a slower pace, trying to think. The reality of the situation had started sinking in. Jordan met Pandora in a gay bar, went home with her, and apparently engaged in raucous sex with her before passing out. She was certain the woman was alive when she left, though she must admit the sounds she attributed to snoring could be the escape of air and gases from a recently butchered human being. That said, Jordan knew, despite her demons, that she could not kill another person. Then it hit her and she froze just outside autopsy two's swinging doors - had the killer been there while Jordan slept off whatever it was she imbibed?

Nigel poked his head out of the cutting room. "Coming, love, or are you too busy entertaining yourself with thoughts of hot lesbian sex?"

Jordan frowned at him but kicked started herself into action. She must act as if this woman was a stranger. Woody was too dense to notice, but Nigel wasn't, and the last thing she wanted was Nigel on her ass. The irony that Nigel wanted nothing more, in the literal sense, did not escape her.

Autopsies on the obese required special tools. Nigel gathered them while Jordan put on her apron and plastic face shield, adjusting the wireless mike before approaching the autopsy table. Sighing, she made the Y cut, using an extra large scalpel. She was afraid that handling the body would bring more memories to the surface, but then she realized she'd suffered a true blackout. Once that almost comforting thought took hold, she was able to do her job efficiently. The murder weapon was most certainly a chef's knife, with a twelve inch or greater blade, honed to razor sharpness. She spoke these observations in her most professional voice, noting the wounds to all the vital organs - liver, lungs, pancreas, heart, and, truly terrible, stomach and intestines. Those wounds leaked their contents into the body cavity, leaving Jordan and Nigel to deal with sight and smells of booze and feces.

"Shit happens," Nigel groaned, scooping fecal matter into a stainless steel bowl. "She apparently enjoyed a hearty meal as often as possible."

Jordan moved from the cavity, now emptied of its organs, to swab the mouth and examine it for any wound. She sealed each swab in a narrow tube, wishing there was some way to discard them, even a dimwit like Woody would notice Jordan's DNA under those circumstances, and then he'd consult his well worn Dummies Guide to Police Interrogations before closeting himself in an interview room with Jordan. He was cute, and he was sweet, and yes he had an innocent quality she found appealing, but Einstein he was not.

As if on cue, Woody burst into the room, breathless with exertion and excitement, his handsome face reddened from effort. "What do you have?" He stopped a few feet from the body, conveniently near an industrial sized trash can. The man still hadn't desensitized himself to autopsies.

"Murder by death," Nigel joked. Woody frowned at him, processing that as a serious statement, until he caught on, silly Nigel was joking with him.

"Multiple stab wounds," Jordan said. "Any one of which would have been fatal. This was overkill, no pun intended. Every single vital organ was struck. She has no defensive wounds, so it appears she was unconscious when it happened." At Woody's confused expression, she elaborated. "Her tox screen show an alcohol level of four times the legal limit, plus some oxycodone in small numbers, probably a Percocet or two. How was she found?"

"Uh, neighbors heard her door slam really early, and when she didn't get her paper, the neighbor across the hall got suspicious and called us."

"I meant, how was she found? On the floor, in her bed, sitting in a chair, in the shower?" Jordan pulled her plastic mask off and tossed it on a table. Sometimes talking to Woody was like talking to a child. While that was entertaining sometimes - Jordan loved fucking with his head every now and then just to break up the monotony - it was more often irritating.

"Oh." Woody consulted his police issue notebook, his lips moving as he read silently, his eyebrows knitted into a frown that meant he was trying to pronounce some word. "She was in her bed, naked, lying on her side. There's ample evidence she'd had company, as the other side of the bed was slept in. Or at least occupied for a time. CSU has collected hairs and fluids." He closed the notebook and slipped it back into his jacket's inner pocket. "Her neighbors said she was a lesbian, so we're looking for a woman. One pissed off woman, given all that gore." He nodded at the corpse, then quickly looked back at Jordan. "All we have to go on is she had long black hair. DNA from her fingernail scrapings and the apartment should help us identify her."

Nigel looked up at that, turning his attention from his DNA whirlygig to Woody and Jordan. "If your guys will bring me whatever fingerprints they've collected, I'll run them." His smile was close to a leer. "This will make an excellent case for my website." He looked back as his machine stopped whirling, still talking as he pressed computer keys. "Nothing more fascinating to guys than two women going at it between the sheets, eh Woody?"

Woody blushed and stared at the floor. "Not to me, Nigel, I'm missing that brain cell."

"I wouldn't worry too much, Woodrow, one has a certain number of brain cells, and when one goes missing, why sometimes you hardly notice." A graph popped up on his flat screen monitor. He clicked a few more keys. "Indeed, we have female DNA. It's going to take some time to run it against the data banks. Since women rarely kill, I'm not too hopeful we'll find a match. It's too bad Massachusetts law only permit's the collection of DNA from violent felons. And state employees, violent lot we are." He spun around on his stool to face his friends. "I can also access the military DNA base if you'd like."

Jordan's mouth was dry. "Anyone want a drink?" she offered, heading for the door.

"Sure, love, thank you," Nigel said. Woody shook his head, moving closer to Nigel.

"You think we'll find our killer in the military?" He looked hopeful.

"Well, it does make sense on a certain level, they are trained to kill, after all, and what kind of women are attracted to the military in the first place?

Woody shrugged, stumped by that one. "Women who need a job?" he offered.

Jordan returned with two cans of soda as Nigel laughed. She gave him his Coke, then popped the top on her Diet version. "True enough, Woody, but think. I'd say a large percentage of the female military population firmly believes in don't ask, don't tell."

"Oh come on, Nigel, that's a sexist, disgusting generalization," Jordan said, before washing away the cotton in her mouth. She hadn't had a hangover this long-lasting since her university days.

Nigel smirked. "Have it your way, Jordan. Who am I to pass judgment?"

"Damn right," she said.

"What can you tell me about the wounds themselves?" Woody asked, wanting to avert yet another argument between these nimble mental combatants, he could never keep up.

Jordan sighed, she had to tell the truth, but she took another drink before answering. "Whoever did it knew how to use a knife, knew where the vital organs were."  
"So maybe it's a doctor or a medical student." Woody brightened and reached for his notebook. He scribbled a line, then looked at Nigel. "Run the DNA in CODIS, then the military, I'm going to try to track her movements last night, maybe she hung out at the bar across from Mass General." He slapped his notebook together and put it in his pocket. "I'll be back."

"I bet you will," Jordan mumbled to Woody's retreating back.

"Trouble in paradise?" Nigel asked, busily starting the run process on DNA profiles.

"Paradise my ass," Jordan said. "We're just friends, and you know it."

"No I don't," he said, giving her his best innocent expression. "He looks at you like you're a dog in heat, following you around. The office pool has you bumping boots soon enough."

Jordan frowned. "Not likely, Nige, don't invest in a losing proposition. He's cute and sweet, but I get tired of having to explain the same things over and over." She finished her drink. "I'll get busy writing the autopsy report, let me know if you get a hit."

******

Jordan sat at her desk, staring blindly at her computer screen, her hands motionless in her lap. This could not be happening. She did not kill that woman. The only reason she was with her in the first place was the loneliness, the spiritual isolation she felt from the human race, and an acute case of horniness. Usually her partner didn't matter, as long as they were warm and could make her feel some kind of connection, she'd sleep with a dog as easily as a woman or a man, though she hadn't tried bestiality yet. Haven't sunk that low, she thought. She struggled to remember something about the woman, something that would have enticed her to go home with someone three times her size.

She remembered the woman - Pandora, the woman had a name, a history, she must remember that - had an arrogance about her. Something about being an artist, a great writer, an archivist of old films and the dream she had of one day starting a magazine dedicated to those old works of art, as she called them. Jordan tried to call her image up, living and drinking, as opposed to cut open and dissected a few yards away. Pandora wore a large, dark top, much like a maternity blouse, if Jordan's foggy memory was reliable, and jeans. Big jeans. She had some kind of accent, and that bugged Jordan, she should be able to place it, living as she had in so many places. Southern. That was it. A southern twang.

She remembered Pandora drank a lot, and the more she drank, the more she pontificated. She'd rattled off a list of books, highly critical of each one, declaring she could have done better and none of them should have seen the light of day. It seemed those books all had to do with movies, so Jordan wasn't familiar with the titles, and when her boredom became clear to Pandora, she switched to TV shows. Jordan watched little TV, but she could at least feign some interest in the subject. Then Pandora complained about her health issues, the pain in her hips and knees, and she extracted a pill bottle from her purse. Fascinated at this dance with danger, Jordan watched as she swallowed two, chased them with scotch, and then offered the bottle to Jordan.

"Percocet," she explained. "For the pain, and the high it gives is just gravy on the biscuits."

What the hell, Jordan remembered thinking, why not? She took one. Death had yet to catch her, though it had tried several times. Jordan Cavanaugh was simply too fast for the fucker to catch. Pandora's knee pressed against Jordan's, her eyes bright with anticipation, and she asked about Jordan's story.

"Everyone has a story," she said, "some more interesting than others. What do you do?"

Jordan couldn't remember if she told her or not. Usually telling people she cut up dead people for fun and profit sent them scurrying away to find other potential lovers, so it was likely she didn't tell Pandora. She did remember telling her she worked with a bunch of lunatics, a dysfunctional family type of situation, where she felt isolated and lonely. She might have mentioned Woody, how disappointing it was that he seemed her only viable option as a romantic partner.  
"So what are you doing in a gay bar if you're straight?" Pandora asked, her expression clearly saying she felt played.

And Jordan explained, or thought she did, that she wasn't bound by labels such as straight or gay, she'd take her affection wherever she found it. Her mother died when she was kid, she said, and she supposed she'd never stopped looking for a substitute to that kind of maternal nurturing. It didn't matter, whatever she'd said, at some point she accepted Pandora's invitation and followed her to her apartment. She had no memory of what happened after that, though the evidence seemed clear they'd had sex and both passed out at some point.

So here she was, in her office, trembling with fear because she knew Nigel would find a DNA hit and they'd come for her. Shackle her and lead her out before her jeering colleagues, we always knew you were an unstable fruitcake! She forced herself to compose the report, typing in the correct responses in the appropriate boxes, writing the summary in as neutral a tone as possible. She hit the print button, and when it slipped out of the printer, added it to the file. Then she sought Nigel.

He was leaning back on his high stool, his heels hooked over the lower supports, his arms dangling from the armrests. His gaze was locked on the screen a couple of feet away. He didn't hear her as she walked up. She looked at the screen. Well fuck me, she thought.

Nigel jumped, suddenly aware of her presence, and she thought he flinched away as he looked at her hands. No sharp objects, Nigel, she thought. You're safe. I'm not. "Jordan," he said, and he swiveled to face her. Must be sympathetic, he seemed to think, for he took her hands in his and met her eyes. "What's going on?"

She looked around. It was quiet, the day shift was over and the only employees on duty were herself, Nigel, and a couple of technicians who would most likely spend the evening watching TV and gorging on junk food. "I didn't kill her, Nigel."

He studied her face, and then a small smile toyed with his mouth. "I wouldn't think you did," he said, "but whatever are we going to do with this?" He nodded his head toward the screen that displayed a match between the DNA from the foreign hairs and one Dr. Jordan Cavanaugh, Massachusetts Medical Examiner's Office.

"You tell me," she said. "I guess you can give me an hour's headstart."

His smile broadened. "Or." He released her hands and spun back to his keyboard. "I can do this." He tapped a few keys and the match disappeared. He tapped a couple more keys, watched the defrag box pop up, and the animation begin, indicating he was flushing material.

"You can go to jail," she whispered.

"As can you. As you will if Woody or that evil bitch Woolcott gets hands on," he said. "Tell me about it." He stood and guided her into his tiny cubicle, shared with Bug, who was long gone in pursuit of his goddess, Lily. Jordan sat in Bug's chair and faced Nigel.

"I met her in a bar," she began, then her head itched and she scratched violently. "I went home with her. I don't remember much, I had a lot to drink, a lot, and she gave me a painkiller, too."

"You and your death wish," he said. "Let me get us something to drink." While he was gone, Jordan contemplated the future, the dance of deception they'd begun, forever joined now at the hip. She was totally at Nigel's mercy. He returned with two sodas and settled back in his chair, waiting for her to resume her story.

She drank before picking up the thread. "I truly don't remember. She's not my type, I can't believe I went with her, but sometimes I get so lonely, so restless…"

"I understand. Anyone who can quell that emptiness surging within will do. So you went home with her, had sex with her, passed out. I assume it was you leaving that the neighbors heard?"

Jordan nodded, a bobble head on steroids. Nigel reached out to still the motion. He stroked her hair, and then, with a horrified expression, looked at his hand. Jordan laughed, bitterly. "Go. Wash thoroughly. I don't suppose I can send you out for some Rid, can I?"

He leaped from his chair and dashed to the sink against the far wall. He scrubbed like a surgeon, then used a copious amount of paper towels to dry his hands. Tossing the last one in the trash, he sighed. "Of course I'll run that errand," he said, "but there's one detail I didn't mention earlier, it's what I get for trying to provide a shred of dignity. Our Pandora was a box of plague - she had crabs, too."

"Oh Jesus," Jordan said, recalling the pubic itch that had bothered her as well.

"I'll add the remedy to my list," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Just stay calm and admit nothing."

"I can do that," she said. She watched him grab his leather jacket and leave the office. She started a mental list of her own - new sheets and pillows, a fungicide to spray on her mattress - hell, should she buy a new mattress? She turned to Bug's computer and did some online searches for mattresses, without buying one. Fungicide would have to do. She got up and walked back to autopsy.

She approached Pandora and stared down at her. "How could you be so oblivious to the vermin?" she silently asked, and how could you so cavalierly share with me? Did you do the same to someone else who took extreme umbrage to your assault? Did you die while I was there, or after? Jordan looked at her hands, hands that routinely cut people, knew precisely where every organ and artery were, hands that had long, sensitive fingers, the hands of a surgeon or a musician, both of which she'd once hoped to be. Pandora, unlike last night, wasn't very chatty, and Jordan covered her groin, the open chest cavity would have to remain so until the autopsy was ruled complete. She then crept away from Pandora, precisely as she'd done that morning, and went into the women's locker room and wept.

*******

The day staff arrived on time, with the exception of Lily. She always arrived early, there were emotions to stroke, feelings to guide, lives to instruct and judge. As she opened her office door, she glanced down the corridor and saw Jordan in her office. Pausing long enough to deposit her coat and purse, Lily walked down the hall and entered Jordan's office without knocking. Startled, Jordan looked up. Ah shit, her expression said, but she managed a polite "Good morning."

"Anything come in overnight?" Lily sat, uninvited, on the couch.

"Nope. Just the murder victim who came in around four yesterday."

"Why wasn't I informed? You know I have to notify next of kin, provide grief counseling for them, they'd fall to pieces if I wasn't there to hold their hands through the grieving process."

Jordan's smile was tired, the dark circles under her eyes darker. Her hair was damp and she pushed it away from her face. "I believe you were busy chasing Bug into a corner," she said, "but I'm certain you knew about her. Apparently everyone was talking about her girth."

Lily frowned. "They were making fun of an obese person? Who was?"

"I don't know, I came on for the night shift. I'm sure you'll ferret out the guilty party, Lily, I have faith in your nosiness."

"I'm not nosey, I'm doing my job. What's wrong with you? You look really down."

"Long night. The autopsy was not without its technical problems, and then there was Woody to deal with, he wants to solve this murder as fast as we can do it for him."

Lily frowned, observing Jordan suspiciously. "Something's bothering you, why are you insulting Woody? He's a great detective. Did you two fight, or did this latest case trigger some memory of your mother?"

"Lily, Lily." Jordan sighed. "Leave my mother out of it. That area is none of your business, despite your good intentions. And no, Woody and I did not fight. I'm tired and I'm ready to go home, as soon as I check in with Garret." She stood and gathered the Pandora Ramos file. "I'll see you tomorrow, have a good one."

Lily stood and followed Jordan as far as Garret's office. Jordan closed the door, effectively cutting off Lily's favorite eavesdropping source, and she saw Jordan hand the file to Garret and then sit in front of his desk. Something was bothering Jordan, and the sooner it was dealt with, the less damage would result. Lily knew Jordan needed help, that she'd never recovered from her mother's murder, that living on the edge was her way of coping with a world she couldn't control.

Lily believed in control. Though technically a low level morgue employee, she'd efficiently insinuated herself into the lives of the doctors who dealt with death daily, busily seeing to their mental health and well-being. It was her mission, and she embraced it. Lily wanted above all to make a difference in the world, shape her corner of it to fit her view of things, and she would not be deterred by a mere brush-off from the likes of Jordan Cavanaugh. She went to her office and called up the computer report on the woman from last night. It seemed straightforward enough, not something that would send Jordan into yet another tailspin. She noted that Nigel assisted, so she left to see if he was still there.

He was. He was talking with Bug about Manchester United, and he looked up, annoyed, at her interruption. "I'll leave you to chat with Bug," he said, "it's time I went home anyway."

"No, wait, it's you I want to talk to," Lily said, though she flashed a smile at Bug, who returned it with an adoring gaze. "Was there something unusual about last night's autopsy? Jordan seems to be heading into meltdown mode."

"Why would you say that? She seems fine to me, tired of course, we both are, but she's nowhere near 'meltdown' as you so tactfully refer to it." He stood close to her, towering over her, intimidating her into taking a few steps back.

"I know the signs, Nigel, I'm trained to recognize these things."

He snorted. "You're trained to say 'there there' to a grieving relative. You are not equipped to make judgments on the emotional states of others. Now. I'm tired and have a date with my bed." He looked at Bug. "Later, mate, I'll Tivo the match and we can watch it tonight. Just don't cheat and get the score online." He grabbed his jacket and brushed past Lily.

"Well." She couldn't hide her indignation. "How rude."

Bug stood to comfort her. "He is tired, Lily, we overwork him, you know. And he does know Jordan best, I trust his judgment." When she looked at him with a betrayed expression, he hastily added "Not that you aren't sensitive to these things, aren't usually right, but they've had a long night and pleasantries fly out the window at times like this."

"Hmmpph. You're probably right. I need to track down this woman's next of kin and have them come in. See you for lunch?"

"Of course," he said.

******

Jordan stripped her bed, throwing the sheets and pillowcases and pillows away, then sprayed her mattress. She grabbed a blanket from the linen closet and one of her new pillows and settled on the couch, popping a Vicodin for good measure - her headache was back and she really needed to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

She hated the night shift, though she'd never admit that to Garret. She knew she pushed his limits, she couldn't seem to help it, but she did have a deep affection for him.

She fell into a dreamless sleep, curled on her side on the couch, covered with an old blanket that was her mother's. She had no idea how long the phone rang before it penetrated her exhaustion. She rose up on one elbow and grabbed the receiver off the end table.

"Cavanaugh, and you better have a damn good reason for calling."

"Jordan, it's Woody. I was hoping to drop by, I may have some leads on that case."

"What case?" She yawned, then glanced at the clock on the wall. It was noon.

"Pandora Ramos. The heavy lady."  
Oh Shit. Jordan sat up, alert, ready to run down the fire escape if necessary. "What's up with her?" She tossed the blanket back and got up, walking to the kitchen for a cold Diet Coke.

"I've been tracing her movements yesterday and wanted to talk with you about them."

She knew Woody was not that bright, but he did have common sense and finely tuned street smarts. She wouldn't underestimate him, but she didn't fear him, either, connecting the dots was something he usually let others do. "OK, fine, I'm here, bring food, OK?"

"OK. See you in about fifteen minutes."

She hung up and looked around, letting her instincts direct her. She was smart as hell, facile as all get out, she could play Woody if needed, so she ruled out disappearing. She folded the blanket and put it back in the closet, then stretched out again on the couch, resting her soda can on her flat stomach. Different scenarios ran through her mind - Woody had discovered she had drinks with Pandora and went home with her, he'd discovered some unknown woman did the same, he found out Pandora was an alias and she was really a woman on the run. She wouldn't know until he got here, she thought, it wasn't time to panic.

She'd finished her drink and felt more alert by the time he arrived. His expression was open and happy, his usual mask, the country boy in the big city who found life in the fast lane fascinating. She welcomed him in, and they sat on the couch. Jordan held the pillow across her abdomen, lightly hugging it, her gaze focused on Woody. "So what's so important that you wake my ass up, huh?" She smiled when she said it.

"One of her neighbors said she liked to frequent a bar called Twat, ever heard of it?" Before Jordan answered, he said "It's a gay bar, near the Charles."

Jordan rolled her eyes. "With a name like Twat, what else could it be? And?"

"And so I went there. The bartender remembered Pandora with a younger, dark haired woman, and they left together. She didn't catch a name." He cocked his head and smiled. "From her description, it could be you - long dark hair, pretty, kind of wild. Bartender said this woman was really into the chicks." He shook his head. "Definitely not you."

Jordan tried to smile, her earlier resolution about telling the truth flying out the window. "Nope, not me," she lied. "So why make a trip over here to tell me that?"

"I was thinking maybe you could go to the bar - I clearly wasn't welcome - and ask around."

"Uh, no, I don't think I'd be comfortable doing that, Woody. I'm not a cop. Get Lu to do it, or one of the other female undercovers." She tightened her hold on the pillow.

"Since when does that stop you from butting into an investigation?"

"I just wouldn't feel comfortable in a lesbian bar, Woody, OK?"

"OK." He frowned, aware he'd offended her somehow. "You're off tonight, right? Want to go to dinner?"

She sighed. "Actually, I'm really tired and not feeling that great. Can I get a rain check?"

"Sure." He patted his knees. "Guess I should let you get back to sleep, sorry I woke you, I was just excited about this lead and hoped you could help. I understand," he added quickly, "I wouldn't be too happy hanging out in a gay bar, either."

Jordan walked him to the door. I wouldn't go within five miles of that place, she thought, smiling at Woody as she closed the door on him. Idiot forgot to bring food, she grumbled, so she opened the refrigerator. A few Diet Cokes, some curling balogna, a shriveled orange. She grabbed a drink and closed the door, defeated. She flopped on her couch, clutching her pillow again, wondering how close they actually were to identifying her as the woman in the bar with Pandora.

Jordan had run before to avoid confronting issues, but she'd never faced an iron cage, and knew running from that was not an option. She didn't kill the woman, she was certain of that much, but it surely did look as if she did. And if the deed was done as she lay unconscious beside her, then the killer certainly knew what she looked like, if not who she was. Comforting thought.

Jordan decided to make her bed and try for some proper sleep. She opened the package of new sheets and soon had her bed ready for occupancy. She slipped under the top sheet and quilt and tried to get comfortable, but images of Pandora, open on the autopsy table, haunted her. Who hated you that much, she thought. There must have been something likeable or attractive enough to draw me to you, I can't remember. Jordan had had a few blackouts over the years, but never felt frightened enough by the event to reorder her life. This one might do it. She was certain Pandora was still alive when she snuck out, without that consoling thought she'd probably turn herself in. Someone was watching. The thought came unbidden, and it chilled Jordan, under her covers. Someone watched and waited for me to leave, then butchered that woman, and for what? Jordan assumed she wasn't in danger, as the killer let her leave, but that was cold comfort. She practiced relaxation techniques until she fell into an uneasy sleep.

*****

The morgue was its usual chaotic self when she stepped out of the elevator the next morning. She went to her office to deposit her coat and purse, then went in search of Nigel. He was alone with his toys, the array of expensive computers and machines that helped find answers from dead and decaying bodies. He looked up when she came in.

"How was your night?" he asked, turning away from a computer screen.

"Long. I kept dreaming of huge rapist lice crawling over my body, only to get into jousts with oversized crabs." Her expression was grim. "Is the trail cold?"

Nigel glanced around. "Woody's been around, he's all wet and happy about some vague description of a woman who resembles you. He doesn't think it's you, mind you, but he's certain he has a description of our killer."

"CSU no doubt turned up my fingerprints, Nige, this isn't going to last long."

"Ah." He pointed his index finger toward the ceiling. "I convinced my overworked mate at the police lab to let me handle that chore for him. I regret to say that I couldn't find a match, and a power surge ate the files."

"They still have the cards, Nige, they can run their own comparison." She fought back tears. "I feel like the fox when the hounds have been loosed."

The swinging door to trace evidence opened and they both looked. Garret came in, in dire need of a shave, wearing rumpled scrubs. "I have you scheduled in autopsy one," he snarled at Jordan. She involuntarily stepped back at his ferocity, and then she caught a whiff of his body odor. He'd been spending entirely too much time with his lover, Miss Scotch.

"I'm going to change," she said, and she edged past him, holding her breath. Great. Her boss was a drunk, she had the cops on her trail, a body needed her full attention, and all she could think of was what Nigel would demand in return for his help.

The locker room was empty. She pulled clean scrubs off the shelf, then stood in front of her locker, holding them, suddenly unable to perform the simplest task - taking her clothes off. She was empty. Then she heard the door open and snapped back to reality. Glancing over her shoulder, she sagged. It was Lu, Boston PD's premiere ball breaker. Jordan opened her locker and then hung her jacket on the back hook. As she slipped the scrub shirt over her long-sleeved tee shirt, Lu approached her and sat on the narrow bench bolted in place in front of the lockers.

"How are you, Jordan?"

Jordan pushed off her tennis shoes, then peeled her jeans off. She stepped into her scrub pants before answering. "I'm fine, Lu, and you?" She tied the drawstring and adjusted the shirt over her waist. "Something I can do for you?" She sat on the bench to put her shoes on.

"I've been working the Ramos case with Woody," she said. "He said you refused to go into the bar and nose around. That doesn't sound like you, Jordan."

"I'm trying to turn over a new leaf." She tightened the laces of her left shoe and knotted them. "And I just wouldn't be comfortable there."

"Woody said you suggested I go."

Jordan put on her other shoe. "Well, I do think you could pull it off, Lu, blend right in so to speak. No offense, it's just that you have a take no crap attitude." Jordan stood and looked down at the woman she loathed.

"True," Lu said, pleasantly, rising to stand eye to eye with Jordan. "Nigel's coming up empty on the DNA and fingerprint matches. I'm thinking I'll let our lab take a run at it."

"Aren't they backed up? That's why Nigel offered in the first place." She stepped around Lu. "I have an autopsy, and if I don't get to it, Garret will be climbing up my ass. Good luck with the investigation, I hope you find who did it."

"We will," Lu said.

Jordan left her in the locker room and crossed the hall to the autopsy rooms. She pushed the door to One open and saw Lily standing with Bug. They both looked at her when she came in. "Taking my autopsy, Bug?" she asked, trying to keep it light.

"No, just assisting. It's a little slow this morning, Garret wants us kept busy."

"Going to learn to slice and dice, Lily?" Jordan's smile was tight.

"I am required to participate in eighty hours of field work," she said.

"Yeah, but that's field work, toots. Cutting open bodies is for physicians. If you faint, we may not be able to catch you."

"I'm not going to faint," Lily sniffed. She stared thoughtfully at Jordan, as if Jordan was coloring outside the lines again, naughty girl. She deliberately pushed one of Jordan's many buttons. "Aren't you due for your annual psych evaluation?"

Jordan paused in the act of slipping her face guard into position. Her shoulders squared, and she said softly "When I have time for it, I'll schedule it, thank you. I didn't know being a walking, talking calendar was part of your job, Lily. Want to keep up with my periods, too?"

Lily blanched and rushed from the room.

"Jordan," Bug said, "you didn't have to be unkind."

She slapped the face guard down and turned to the body. "And she doesn't have to mind my business." She looked at the young man on the table, he'd been found dead on his school campus, according to the intake form next to him.

"Lily is a good person, Jordan," Bug continued, moving closer to her.

She loosely held a scalpel over the young man's chest, but her eyes cut to Bug. "Lily is probably a lot of things, Bug, but right now she's leading you around by the dick. She's nosey and pushy and absolutely certain her way is the right way. All this compassion she displays is just that, a display. Cross her and see how quickly she shifts gears." She put the scalpel to the boy's chest and whispered "Sorry, old boy, but we have to know what happened to you."

Bug puffed up like one of his insects in a defensive posture. "Lily is none of those things, Jordan, and you owe her an apology!"

"Bug." Jordan stopped at the end of the first incision. "I don't owe Lily jackshit. The little Miss Merry Sunshine routine is plucking my last nerve, and I certainly don't want to hear you defend her. Go tend to her, I don't need you help with this."

He glared at her. "And you don't think your own rendition of Rebel Without a Cause doesn't irritate us?" He tossed his face shield on a table. "If you weren't Garret's pet pussy cat, you'd be long gone and this place would be better for it." He stalked out.

And fuck you, too, Jordan thought, finishing the Y incision. She dictated her findings into the wireless mike inside the face guard - the kid had an enlarged heart and it would be up to tox to determine if it was from drug abuse or a congenital flaw. His remaining organs were healthy. She covered his groin with a blue sheet, pulled off the face guard and unhooked the mike, and walked away from another life cut short.

She saw Bug with Lily in her office as she passed. They both stared at her. Jordan kept going. She stopped at Garret's office and knocked on the open door. He looked up and said "Come in."

"I'm finished with the kid," she said, easing into the chair in front of Garret's desk. "My first guess is drug overdose. His heart was enlarged, and while his liver was generally healthy, there were early signs of problems."

Garret nodded. "Good. Good job, I mean." He rubbed his face. "I sense some tension around here, Jordan, who have you pissed off?"

"Probably everybody." She shrugged. "I woke up the other day and realized I'm tired of trying to play the game. I know you harp that we're a family, but trust me, Garret, if I had siblings like Lily and Bug, I'd run away from home. And right now you're not doing such a great job as father figure."

"What do you mean by that?" he snapped.

"You're hiding from your problems in a bottle, old chum. Don't we both know that doesn't work?"

He sighed. "It's Abbie, it's Maggie, it's Renee. I feel like the Nazis at Cassino, they're coming from every direction and I only have so many resources to fight them off."

"What do they want?"

"Maggie wants me to take all the responsibility for Abbie, while still hinting she wants me back. Renee wants me to toe her line, my ethics be damned. Abbie wants to scream at me daily about my lousy fatherhood skills and how everything is my fault." He leaned on his desk. "And now you're picking fights with the staff, acting like the old days, when you'd peel off from your commitments and run. Lily is always bursting into an off-key rendition of "Feelings" and I'm about to go bonkers."

Jordan smiled. "So escape with me. For one day. We can go play in the woods or something. Bug would puff up like a toad if you told him he was in charge for the day."

Garret squinted at her and then he grinned. "You know what? That sounds great. Screw being the responsible type for once." He pushed away from his desk and reached for his jacket, hanging on a newel post.

Jordan gathered her things, and they walked to the elevator. Garret paused long enough to promote Bug to chief spider for the day, then he pushed the "down" button. Lily poked her head out of her doorway.

"Are you two going on a call?" she asked.

"Indeed," Jordan answered, as the elevators slid open. "The call of the wild." The doors sealed off Lily's reply. On the way down, they debated whose car they'd take. Garret won the coin toss. Jordan hoped he had some decent tunes in his CD deck.

They drove north, without discussing it. They crossed the New Hampshire border and soon entered the historic town of Portsmouth. Garret found his way to the historical district, on the banks of the river. A huge bridge linking Portsmouth with the state of Maine marred the view. Garret spotted a tavern at the end of the street and dragged Jordan into it.

It was dark, as all good taverns are, and smokey. A jukebox blared from the far corner. She and Garret sat at the bar, patrons three and four, and the bartender ambled over. Garret ordered scotch, Jordan beer.

"To hell with responsibility," Garret said when the drinks arrived.

"To hell with romantic entanglements," Jordan replied, raising her glass.  
They drank. Their goal appeared to be to drain the establishment of any intoxicating beverages, and the amused bartender indulged them up to a point. Once he'd told them that they'd had enough and he couldn't serve them more, they paid the tab and wobbled out.

"Whoa, where did the sun go?" Jordan asked, freezing on the bumpy sidewalk.

"I think it's evening. Maybe it's night." Garret peered at his watch, squinting, then gave up. "Or maybe it's a solar eclipse. Wouldn't someone have told us if we were going to be eclipsed?"

Jordan shook her head, then linked her arm through Garret's. "I think we've been eclipsed, old pal, in our jobs, our lives." They walked unsteadily away from the river. "Other people want to dominate us."

Another bar caught Garret's eye and he guided Jordan into it. "I can go along with that," he said. They sat in a booth, trying to pretend to be sober enough to be served. "It seems all the woman in my life want to rule me like the Kingdom of the Eunuch."

Jordan giggled. "You do tend to choose women who take your balls and only let you have them when it's useful to them."

He frowned, then looked up at the waitress, ordering their drinks. As she walked away, he said, "You're a fine one to talk."

"I don't have balls, Garret, I'm in no danger of someone stealing mine."

"Balls are overrated. Once you have them, you're expected to use them, to be big and strong and always right."

"Not to mention always knowing the right direction. Does GPS come with balls? Most men think radar comes with a womb, that we can always find whatever they've lost."

Their drinks arrived and Garret paid for them. "Yours must have malfunctioned, you're the most lost person I know."

"Really?" She smiled. "I happen to know exactly where I am."

"And where's that?"

"Sitting in a seedy bar in a strange town with the man who has a savior complex where I'm concerned. Let's hope Renee and Lily haven't activated their womb radar, I'd be pissed if they crashed our party."

He groaned. "God, Renee and Lily. Could God have invented two more irritating women? Renee desperately wants balls of her own, and Lily wants me to dedicate mine to her."

"Uh, Garret, I think she's turned her focus to Bug."

He snorted. "Bug never had balls to begin with. Subservient, obsequious little…" his brain couldn't locate more adjectives and he shrugged.

"He has the hots for Lily, that's for sure. Or maybe Nigel. Sometimes it's hard to tell."

Garret laughed. "Nigel is a case, that's for sure."

Jordan paused mid-sip. "Nigel's a good guy."

Garret nodded. "Yeah, he is. You two have always had some kind of weird bond, I've never been able to figure it out."

"We're just the same but different, different from everyone else, they think we're weird but they tolerate us. My tolerance scale for others is quickly disappearing."

"You've never been tolerant."

"Hey, I'm nice to Lily, aren't I? And I haven't kicked Howard in the balls. Yet."

"Granted." He finished his drink and signaled for another. "Lily told me I need to schedule your annual with Howard." He sighed.

Jordan spewed beer on the table. "Oh God, please don't refer to it like that."

He looked at her, puzzled. "Like what?"

She rolled her eyes. "My annual. Howard Stiles is never going to find me with my feet in the stirrups."

Garret cracked up, other patrons glanced his way. "Sorry," he mumbled, "poor word choice."

When they'd been thrown out of that bar, they stood on the street, confused. "You can't drive, Garret," Jordan said, "and I sure as shit can't. Think we can find a hotel in this Colonial archeology site?"

He looked around. "One way to find out." He left her on the street and walked back into the bar. When he came out, he pointed up the hill. "There's a bed and breakfast two blocks that way."

Bound by the communal love of drunks everywhere, Garret took her hand and they stumbled slowly up the hill. Jordan felt all warm and happy, Garret always had that effect on her, he accepted her as she was and didn't want to change her. Much. They found the B&B and Garret checked them in. The woman showed them to her only available room, a single with a gable looking toward the river.

Alone, they stared at each other, full of booze and camaraderie. Garret's eyes had that lost, lonely cast, and Jordan could remember, in glimpses, the times when he'd rescued her from herself. Later, she couldn't remember how they ended up wiggling under the sheets, but wiggle they did. She did remember finding the experience somewhat lacking.

He passed out first, still on top of her, and she pushed him off. She itched, again, and made a firm resolution that if he'd given her crabs, she would indelicately slice off any dangling appendages at hand. She went in the bathroom and showered, hoping the itching was simply a manifestation of friction. Without nightclothes, she pulled her tee shirt on, found her panties and stepped into them, and slid into bed next to Garret. He promptly farted as he rolled onto his side. Jordan spent the moments before passing out wondering how she'd face him in the morning.

*****

Jordan snuck into her office, successfully avoiding Nigel and Woody. They were deep in conversation in the break room, so she waited until their backs were turned to make her move. Feeling relieved, she stepped into her office and gently closed the door.

"Doing our imitation of a mouse, Jordan?"

She jumped. That squeaky, irritating voice reminded her of fingernails on a blackboard. Composing herself, she turned. Dr. Howard Stiles sat, grinning like the frog who just nabbed the unwary fly, sat on her couch. Morning light glinted off his shiny face. "Howard," she said noncommittally. "What brings you here?" She hung her jacket and purse, then sat in her desk chair.

"Why you, of course. I find myself ever attracted to you, Jordan." He smiled and she wanted to puke. She centered her hands on her desk, fighting the urge to clench them into fists. "You're way past due for your annual evaluation, or so my human blackberry reminds me."

"Lily," she said, teeth gritted.

"Well, Lily and that pesky reminder popup on my computer. Fear not, you're not alone in your avoidance of my charms. Nigel is also on the run."

Jordan rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you'll catch him sooner or later, Howard."

"Oh, I certainly will. Not much escapes my ever watchful eye. So what's up with you? Rumor has it you're poaching in others' ponds."

Jordan leaned back in her chair and let her hand fall into her lap. "What hidden meaning does that have, Howard? I have work to do, you know. I don't have time for this."

"You'll have to make time." He leaned forward, his expression an odd mixture of professional interest and lust. "I hear you've been back to your old ways - casual sex, disappearing for days at a time, being uncooperative with everyone. While I'm up for participating in the casual sex, I'd really like it if you wouldn't disappear on us. And cooperating, especially with the likes of me, can be useful."

"Howard, I wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last man on earth."

"Of course not, honey, you'd get killed in the rush."

She glared at him, but it had no effect. He continued to grin, his face sweaty and gleaming all the more in the growing eastern light. "I'm not disappearing. I have a lot of leave time stored up, and the bean counters have decided it's use it or lose it. So I'm using it. And who says I'm uncooperative? I've been busting my ass lately."

"That may be true." He leered. "But with whom? I hear the detectives are finding you remarkably incompetent when it comes to the case of Pandora Ramos."

Jordan shrugged. "I did her autopsy, we pulled what trace evidence there was and catalogued it. Cause of death was no mystery - knife overkill."

His expression grew shrewd. "Yet it seems the case disturbed you on some level."

"They all disturb me, Howard, lives cut short, often brutally." She reached for the file in her inbox, hoping he'd take the hint.

"Did her lesbianism hit a chord, Jordan?" The leer was back, mingled with interest and compassion.

She opened the file and picked up a pen, then stopped, staring at him. "I am not a lesbian, Howard."

"No, I believe the term is bi-sexual. In your case, a chasing after mother love."

"Oh screw you, Howard." She fought the urge to throw the pen at him. "What I do in my bedroom, and with whom, is none of your business."

He wiggled forward on the couch, his hands resting on his knees. He looked even more like a frog waiting to pounce, and Jordan laughed. Once she started laughing, she couldn't stop. She put her head on her desk and let the laughter run its course until it became tears. Howard got up and pulled the chair in front of the desk around to sit next to her. "Talk to me," he said.

She sat up, in control now. "I find it amusing that men get so turned on by the idea of two women in carnal embrace. Love is love, Howard."

"But casual sex is not love and you know it."

"Then human contact is what it is, however brief, it's one person filling the emptiness." She took her pen and initialed the top of the intake form. "And it's still none of your business."

"You disappeared with Garret last week, did he fill the emptiness for awhile?"

Her expression would have slain more sensitive men. "That is definitely none of your business, but, as you should know from years of poking into our personal lives, Garret is a friend. A brother, if you will. If you're trying to make me ill, you're succeeding." She focused on the intake form, avoiding his eyes.

"Very well, then. What about Woody? We all have high hopes he'll be the one to settle down with you."

She slammed the pen on the desk. "Out, Howard. My sexuality is not your concern, it has nothing to do with my job performance, and your prurient interest is way out of bounds."

"Fine." He stood and pulled the chair back to its position in front of her desk. "But we are going to do the evaluation, Jordan. I'll be back at four, be here."

She nodded, and he walked out of her office, leaving her with fantasies of bitchslapping Lily into the next century.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

She had every intention of being in a bar come four o'clock. The seedier the better, fewer questions were asked in those fine establishments. All that mattered was skill at holding one's liquor, and Jordan had some experience in that area. Usually. Visions of Pandora filled her mind, and she shook them off. She focused on her work, signed off on her paperwork, and made a quick dash to the locker room. She was in her street clothes when she left her files on Garret's desk. She still couldn't face him, and she apparently was contagious, he was avoiding her as well.

She drove to the bars near the waterfront and found a parking place. She locked her car and glanced around, it seemed quiet. She walked into a bar called "Oh Hell" and took a seat at the bar. She ordered a beer and looked around, careful not to make eye contact. There was a man seated a few stools away, he deliberately violated the no eye contact rule and winked at her. There was something familiar about him - he was older than Jordan by perhaps twenty years, dressed in a suit of all things, complete with fedora, and there was a small scar on his lip. He eased off his stool and came over, sitting next to her.

They didn't talk, just stared at each other, until he motioned for the bartender.

"Two scotches," he said, and the bartender nodded, pouring out their scotch. He set the two glasses in front of them.

The mysterious man in the fedora raised his glass to hers.

"Here's looking at you, kid," he said, and their glasses clinked together. Both Jordan and the man downed their liquor in one gulp.

"Who are you?" Jordan asked, somewhat rudely.

"Bond, James Bond," the man quipped dryly.

Jordan raised her eyebrow as the man chuckled slightly.

"Belmont DeForest, at your service," he said, extending his hand. Jordan shook it.

"Jordan Cavanaugh," she said. Turning to the bartender, she ordered another scotch.

"Let me pay for this," Belmont said, handing the bartender a folded bill. Jordan downed her scotch again.

"What are you trying to forget?" he asked her.

"How do you know that I'm trying to forget something?" Jordan asked.

"It just shows," Belmont answered. "So what is it? Did you kill someone?"

Her eyes widened.

"So, what happened? Someone piss you off?"

"I didn't kill her," Jordan said. Belmont raised his eyebrow. "I didn't."

"I believe you."

Jordan sighed in relief, as a huge weight that she hadn't known was there vanished. Nigel believed her, but it was something completely different to have someone who didn't know her and like her believe her.

She banged her glass down on the bar.

"Do you want another one?" he asked her. She shook her head.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"I'm a detective," he said.

"Oh, really?" she replied curiously.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a doctor."

"What type of doctor?"

"I work at the morgue," she replied.

He raised an eyebrow. "Very unconventional," he said.

"I'm a very unconventional person," she replied. "You seem to be quite unconventional too."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. For instance, why are you wearing a fedora?" she asked.

"Why not?"

"Good question," Jordan repeated. "Perhaps because people don't wear fedoras anymore?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

"That's true."

He looked at his watch. "Seven o'clock," he said, shrugging into his trench coat. "Time for work."

"What sort of detective are you?" she asked.

"A private detective," he replied. "I'll be seeing you." He walked out of the bar, turning at the door and winking at her.

She stared after him thoughtfully before ordering another scotch.

The next morning Belmont stopped by the morgue. It hadn't taken long to track Jordan down – there weren't that many people named Jordan who worked at the morgue.

"I'm looking for Jordan Cavanaugh," he said to the receptionist.

"She's busy," the receptionist said.

"Where can I wait?" he asked, flashing her a smile. The receptionist blushed and stood up to show him to the waiting room.

Fifteen minutes later, Jordan came out of the examining room, still dressed in her scrubs.

"Belmont!" she exclaimed, surprised.

"Hello, Jordan," he said.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him. He laughed.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said. "Can I take you out to lunch?"

She looked at her watch. "All right. Let me change."

"All right," he said, and she smiled, leaving to get changed.

A half an hour later, they were sitting at a small deli a few blocks from the morgue.

"So what did you want to talk to me about?" she asked.

"This is a great deli," Belmont said, ignoring her question. "Their pastrami on rye is particularly good."

"That's super," she said sarcastically. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Let's sit down first, all right?" he said. She nodded, albeit a bit impatiently, and allowed him to guide her to a secluded table in a corner of the deli.

"I did some research – you're under investigation for murder," he said.

She avoided his gaze. "What business is that of yours?" she asked.

"It's none of my business – unless you'd let me investigate your case," he replied.

She looked up at him in shock. "What?"

"I want to investigate your case," he repeated.

"Why?"

"I'm bored," he said. "And it seems like an interesting case."

"How do I know that you're really not on the job?" she asked him. "Trying to get a confession out of me?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"I don't know. Everybody lies."

"I'm not lying."

"I don't know that."

"You have to trust someone, Jordan, or else life is very lonely. Trust me."

"Why?"

"Because I can help you."

"I can't afford to pay you," she said.

"That's all right," he said. "We can work something out."

"All right," she said reluctantly, hoping that she wouldn't regret her decision to trust this man she hardly knew. But the peculiar thing was that she DID feel like she knew him… he was so familiar.

"So, start from the beginning – what happened?"

"It's a long story," she said.

"I have time."

Belmont helps solve the case.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

Over the next few hours, Jordan told Belmont everything she could remember about that night – about going to the gay bar, getting drunk, speaking with Pandora, going back to her apartment, sleeping with her, waking up the next morning and sneaking out, and finally finding out that she had been murdered when she showed up in the morgue. Belmont listened, no emotions shown on his rugged face. For some peculiar reason, that made her feel better, knowing that someone knew the story, someone who was not emotionally involved in this case.

"I'll get to work," Belmont said, standing up. He left a few bills on the table and walked out of the deli. She finished her drink and left the deli as well, returning to work.

Even though she was late, Garrett didn't say anything – he was still affected by their night together, and didn't wish to see her quite yet. She went to her office and, for once, filled out her paperwork.

It was quite a boring day – Jordan did not leave her office for the rest of the evening. When she left, late that night, she, for the first time in quite a while, did not go to a bar. She returned home and collapsed in bed, falling fast asleep.

She woke up early the next morning after the best night's sleep since that... problem... began. She was relieved that Belmont was on the case, glad that he would figure out what happened. Jordan trusted him, though she really didn't know him, and she was glad that she could trust him.

She went to work, cheery, refreshed, and in a good mood – even though she was still under suspicion for murder. Once again, Belmont stopped by at lunch.

"Have you found anything?" she asked him.

"Nothing yet, though I'm still looking," Belmont said. "Rest assured I won't give up."

"Thank you," Jordan replied, very relieved.

So the days passed, Belmont not discovering anything that would help Jordan – until, one Friday night, he saw someone he recognized from the Boston Police Department. She had been pointed out to him by Jordan as Woody's partner. Something bothered him about her, but he couldn't pinpoint what, she was too elusive at the moment to be pinned on a bulletin board and analyzed.

He approached her.

"A beautiful woman like you shouldn't be sitting all alone," he said, laying on the charm. He had a gut instinct that she held the clue to the case. She looked up at him, startled, and couldn't help but return his smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"All right," she said, smiling. "I'll have a Cosmopolitan."

He ordered their drinks, toasting her when they arrived.

"So, what are you doing here all alone?" he asked her.

"Just unwinding," she said, "it's been a long week. What about you – what are you doing here?"

"Same as you," he said. "What do you do?"

"I'm a civil servant," she said, which was technically the truth. "And you?"

"I have my own business," he said, he, too, glossing over the truth.

"How interesting," she said, finishing her drink. He ordered her another one. "What specific line of work?"

"I help people with problems," he said.

"Ah," she said as her second drink arrived. He sipped his slowly, looking at her over his drink. "What's your name?" she asked him, her words beginning to slur.

"Belmont DeForest, at your service," he said, shaking her hand. "And you?"

"I'm Lu," she said.

"Would you care for another drink?" he asked her, and she nodded. He ordered her another drink, her fourth, and she smiled sloppily at him.

"You're nice," she said, her voice slurred. "You remind me of Jordan."

He turned on his tape recorder.

"She's pretty…" Lu continued, "and feisty."

"Are you attracted to her?" Belmont asked. Lu nodded.

"Yeah, she's so hot… but she slept with someone else."

"What did you do about it?"

"I was angry," Lu said, "it wasn't my fault."

"What wasn't?"

"The woman died…" Lu said, and drained the rest of her drink. She smiled up at him again.

"How did she die?"

"She was stabbed," Lu said, "she was fat, and it took a long time for her to bleed out."

"How do you know?"

"Mmm," she yawned. "Can you get me a cab? I want to go home." He nodded, laying several bills on the table to cover the tab, and helped her up. She swayed dangerously as he helped her outside, where he hailed a cab. He watched as the cab drove away before sticking his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. Belmont then walked down the street back to his apartment – he had quite a lot of information to go on.

Later that night, he was in his office, hacking into the Boston Police Department's schedule. Lu had not been on duty that night, which made things a bit more complicated. But he would find concrete evidence that she was there.

He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on his desk. He picked up a cigarette, lit it, and let it dangle from his bottom lip.

Why was he doing this? Why was he taking on this case? Well, he knew he was attracted to Jordan, but that wasn't the entire reason. She was… interesting, intriguing, and he couldn't quite figure her out. He supposed that was what attracted him to her. His cigarette burnt down; he stubbed it out in a convenient ashtray. Lighting another cigarette, he sat there in silence, thinking of Jordan Cavanaugh.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

"I've caught a break at last," Belmont told Jordan the next day over lunch.

She leaned forward eagerly. "Really? What is it?"

"I don't want to disclose the details unless it pans out," he said, "but I believe this is the beginning of the end."

She leaned back and closed her eyes, sighing in relief. "I'm very, very glad." She opened her eyes again and looked at her watch. She stood up. "I've got to get back to work," she said, and took his hand impulsively, squeezing it lightly. "Thanks."

He left shortly after Jordan, paying the bill on the way out. He headed for the police station. He hoped to speak with Lu, to arrange a casual meeting in a bar, that evening if she got off early enough. The sooner the better...

Later that day he sat at the same bar as the day before, waiting for Lu. She arrived half an hour after he did, and he immediately ordered her a drink.

"So, why did you want to meet again?"

"We didn't finish our conversation last night," he said, "it was quite interesting."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"You weren't interested?"

"Oh, I was – I didn't think you were."

"You can be assured on that count," he said, giving her a crooked grin. She finished her drink and he ordered another one for her.

"Were you just interested in the conversation?" she asked, coolly, looking at him over the rim of her glass.

Inwardly he shuddered. She was not attractive in the least, but he must play along. "No, not really."

She drained her drink and he ordered yet another one.

"The conversation wasn't all that interesting to me either," she replied.

Over the next hour she finished two more drinks and soon was swaying.

"Will you see me home?" she asked him and he nodded. Taking her arm, he helped her into his car and followed her directions to her apartment.

He helped her up the stairs and she unlocked the door to her apartment.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked. He nodded. He wouldn't pass up an opportunity to inspect her apartment. Some small detail might help Jordan.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked him.

"A club soda if you have it, please," he said. She frowned, even that was an effort at this point. "May I use your bathroom?" he asked, quickly deflecting her attention from the implications in club soda.

"It's through the bedroom," she said, indicating the door on his left. He slipped through the door, leaving it ajar, and quickly surveyed the room. There were a pile of photographs on her nightstand, which he picked up. They were of Jordan.

Jordan was clearly oblivious to the camera. Belmont frowned, then quickly snapped pictures of pictures with his camera phone. Then, stepping into the bathroom, he flushed the toilet. He then rejoined Lu in the living room.

Activating the digital voice recorder in his jacket pocket, Belmont discreetly steered the conversation to Lu's current case – the investigation of Jordan Cavanaugh.

"Why were you assigned the case?" he asked her.

"I grew up in that neighborhood," she explained, "in fact, in that apartment."

"Really?" he asked, keeping his tone in the flat range, worried he would telegraph his interest in this detail despite himself. "When did you move here?"

"A few years ago," she replied, "But I still have the key to my old place."

He raised an eyebrow, excitement fluttering in his breast. He was so close…

Then she yawned.

"I'll go," he said, "You're tired."

She gave him a sloppy, drunken smile. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I'd like that."

He helped her into her room and then left her apartment, buoyant at the information he had gathered. He was so close to the end, to clearing Jordan's name.

What would happen between them after he cleared her name? He didn't know. He'd like to see more of her – she was endlessly interesting to him, a very rare quality, and he enjoyed her company. But would she want to see him after this was over?

He hoped so. He really, truly did.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

Belmont DeForest was born forty five years ago in New York City. His father was a police officer and his mother was a librarian. He grew up wanting to follow into his father's footsteps but he did not want to be restricted by the rules and regulations of the police department.

He moved to Boston after college and was immediately taken under his father's best friend's wing. Max Cavanaugh and his wife helped Belmont to settle into Bostonian life and establish his own private detective firm.

Max Cavanaugh and Belmont's father had attended the same college and both had entered the police department after their graduation. Despite the distance between them (and the fact that Belmont's father was a Yankees fan while Max was a Red Sox fan), they remained close friends. So it was only natural when Belmont moved to Boston he'd impose on Max's kindness.

After Max's wife was murdered he distanced himself from his old friends, Belmont and his father included. He couldn't bear to be reminded of his wife for so many years after her horrific death, especially as he was blamed for her death.

Belmont respected Max's wishes, but always felt guilty that he was never able to repay the Cavanaughs for their kindness. He vowed to help Max in any way that he could, if he ever had the chance.

And now he had that chance – he could help Max by helping his daughter. He would solve the case and clear Jordan's name in the way that Max's name never was.

Belmont spent the next few days researching Lu's background. She had indeed lived in that same apartment until a few years ago, when she moved closer to the police station – and Jordan. Lu's current home was only two blocks away from Jordan's, and, according to the building occupation records, Lu had moved to her apartment a few weeks after Jordan had moved to hers.

He didn't want to make Jordan nervous, so he didn't tell her know about Lu's peculiar behavior and obsession with her. All he told her was to simply be careful when dealing with the members of the police department. She scoffed at first but noticed the concern in his eyes.

"Please, Jordan," he said, and she agreed.

He continued to see Lu after work, slowly getting to know her better. The more he got to know of her the more he was repulsed – she was a very odd person, and utterly obsessed with Jordan. But he forced himself to keep up an agreeable façade – he needed to get to the bottom of this case.

During one of his trips to her apartment he noticed a letter from Boston University. He vaguely remembered Jordan telling him that she'd gone there and made a note to call up the alumni office to enquire.

He discovered that Lu had, indeed, had been in the same class at Boston University. She had transferred there during her junior year of college. Unfortunately, the alumni office wouldn't give him any more information, so he would have to ask Lu – something he was not looking forward to.

"I'm going to be out of town next week," he told her over drinks at their usual bar. "I'm going to my college reunion."

"Oh, where'd you go to school?" she asked him.

"NYU," he replied. "What about you?"

"Well, I started out at Boston College but then switched to Boston University," she said.

"Why did you switch?"

"It was cheaper to go to BU," she explained. He knew there was a deeper reason but he did not press – not now, at least.

"I knew someone who went to BU," he told her, "Her name's Ingrid Butler." Jordan had furnished him with this name – the girl had been her roommate during her junior year.

"Sounds familiar," Lu said, "which dorm was she in?"

"Shelton Hall," Belmont replied, naming Jordan's dorm.

"Oh, I lived there too!" Lu said. "The first year I transferred."

"What a coincidence," Belmont said, not having to feign enthusiasm. He saw his prey very, very close now…


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"She knew your roommate," Belmont told Jordan the next day over lunch. "She, too, lived in Shelton Hall."

"Are you ever going to tell me who 'she' is?" Jordan asked, frustrated with all the secrecy.

"Once I get enough evidence to have the police arrest her," Belmont said.

Jordan sighed. "If you tell me, I could help you."

"If you tried, Jordan, it would be more difficult to catch her," Belmont explained.

Jordan sighed again. "Don't get me wrong, I really appreciate you doing this for me, but I want to help!"

"The best way for you to help would be to let me solve the case," Belmont said.

"Fine."

It was three weeks later when Belmont finally, finally, got Lu's confession.

He'd gone over to her apartment at her request and, after quite a few drinks, she began to talk. Over the past weeks she had grown very comfortable in his presence and had began confiding in him. She'd talked about her 'mystery woman' (who Belmont knew to be Jordan). Lu had seen her at a concert one day and had struck up a conversation with her. She was fascinated with the woman and switched colleges so that she could be closer to her.

Of course, Lu didn't just start talking to Belmont about it. He'd first plied her with drinks and then leading questions, subtly coaxing the information out of her.

Three weeks after his conversation with Jordan, he once more drew Lu into a conversation about her mystery woman.

"Has she been involved with someone else?" Belmont asked. He saw her fists clench.

"Yes," Lu said, anger lacing her tone.

"What did you do about it?"

Lu gave a slow, drunken smile. "I killed her."

Belmont nearly jumped out of excitement, barely restraining the "yesss!" he so longed to shout.

"When was this?"

"Almost three months ago," Lu said. It was as though she was in a trance, or perhaps she was just relieved to be speaking of these events at last, for she continued to talk. "I stabbed her after she left the next morning. The woman was gross – a fat, disgusting slob – and I couldn't believe that she had slept with her. I couldn't stand it – I had to do something. She lived in the same apartment I did several years ago, and I still had the key. I couldn't help myself – when I saw that lumbering sack of flesh snoring there, her greasy hair matted on the pillow... I went into the kitchen and got a knife and stabbed her."

He didn't interrupt her and she continued on with her story.

"Afterwards, I made sure that there was no evidence that I was there and left. It wasn't my fault that they thought she did it, and I couldn't save her without convicting myself. I don't want her to go to jail, Belmont!" Lu said, beginning to cry. "I never meant for that to happen."

He handed her a tissue. "I'll get you a glass of water," he said, and she nodded. When he entered the kitchen, however, he called the police.

Fifteen minutes later they knocked at the door, and, when Lu opened it, she looked at Belmont in disgust.

"You ass," she spat, and he shrugged, watching as her fellow officers led her away in handcuffs.

He followed them to the station, as he needed to hand her confession and make a statement. Then he called Jordan.

"It was Lu all along?" Jordan asked confusedly. "But she hates me."

"No, she's obsessed with you," Belmont said. "She transferred colleges to be nearer to you, joined the police force to be able to see you often, even moved so that she was only a few blocks away."

Jordan shuddered. "Ugh, what a terrible woman!"

Just then, she was led out of the interrogation room. Seeing Jordan, she stopped and approached her.

"I did it for you, Jordan, so that we could be together," Lu said.

Jordan shuddered again. "Why would you ever think I'd WANT to be with you?"

"I... I..." she stammered. "I love you."

Jordan moved closer to Belmont. "Well, I don't love you," she said, and Lu began to cry as she was led away.

"What a pathetic woman," Jordan said.

Belmont looked at Lu, who was now quite a distance away from them.

"It's sad," he said.

She looked up at him. "No, just pathetic."

He shrugged, and, offering her his arm, walked out into the sunlight.

Later that night, as they had celebratory drinks at the pub where they'd first met, Jordan looked at Belmont.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, "I know that I was a bit… impatient for results, but I shouldn't have been. I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome," replied Belmont, taking a swig from his drink.

"Why'd you help me out?" she asked him the question that had been on her mind since he had first started investigating her case.

Belmont smiled. "It's a long story," he said, staring out the windows. She looked at him curiously as he turned back to her. He ordered another round, and they toasted each other.

As they swayed out of the pub, Belmont began to sing.

"Don't bogart that joint, my friend…"

Jordan chimed in, "Pass it over to me!"


End file.
